Scars
by comptine
Summary: Arthur doesn't remember much about the night, but the marred skin on his back and the French nation at his bedside give him some idea of what had passed.


Their swords met, the clang of metal echoing in the ballroom. The assembled guests had formed a ring around them, watching with aghast looks as the two nations spiralled away from each other. The younger of them had a wild look in his emerald eyes, his short blond hair plastered to his forehead and when he spat - much to the appalled gasps of the nobility - red splattered against the white marble. He was hunched over, favouring his sword arm as he wheezed for air.

His opponent smirked and straightened, breath even as he shook his head of long blond hair back, blue eyes oddly empty. His sword swept back and he bowed mockingly. England scowled, bringing up his sword. "Take. That. Back." He growled, circling Francis, who didn't move, just watched. "Right now! TAKE IT BACK!"

When Francis laughed, the assembled crowd joined him, the chuckles driving Arthur even further off the edge. "_Ah Angleterre_." France sighed, bouncing his sword up and down in time with the Englishman's predatory steps. "You _are_ a child."

Arthur's hand tightened on the grip of his sword, his knuckles going white. "I am not a child!" He took two steps towards France, "I said take it back, you French bastard!" In a quick move, he stabs towards Francis' chest. With a twist of his wrist, the French nation batted the blade away, still chuckling. Snarling, Arthur rushed forward again, hitching their hilts together. "I am not a child!" He shouts, baring his teeth trying to push the French nation down.

"The more you say it, the truer it becomes my _Angleterre_." With one push, Arthur is bent over, Francis curled over him, "A conceited," Another inch, "Spoiled," England's back had reached it's limit and he was trying to hold back his cries, "Insignificant," France's lips gently brushed his as he pushed him further. "_Little_ _child._" Crying out, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to unhinge their swords while still remaining upright.

"See how you squirm?" Another kiss, biting this time, swallowing his cries, "_Mon bel Angleterre, pourquoi ne peux-tu juste pas l'admettre_?" A free hand dug into his back, pushing upwards painfully. The world was flicking at the edges of his vision, the laughter of the court still echoing in his head. Francis' taste -madness, anarchy and a subtle hint of red wine- still lingered on his tongue, making everything even hazier.

"Say it _Angleterre_." Francis breathed, his breath hot on Arthur's neck. More of France' body pushed down on him and his was beginning to quake from a mixture of exhaustion and pain, "I. Am. A. Child." With each word, Francis drove a fingernail into his spine. Arthur arched up, screaming in agony, France quickly taking his lips in a bruising kiss, biting his tongue and drawing blood.

England's arm finally dropped, sword slicing his shoulder, and fell to the ground, quivering as Francis stood over him. "A c-child…" He whimpered, clutching his shoulder, "J-just a c-child."

Francis smiled down at him, kneeling as he sheathed his sword. "_Mon petit lapin._" He cooed, reaching down and grabbing Arthur's chin, moving it so that the scared, green eyes were locked with his, "You shouldn't be playing with swords." Leaning forward, he gently kissed England's forehead.

The frightened face suddenly turned hard, the stutter gone from his words, a sneer now on his lips. "You're right. A child shouldn't play with swords." Arthur pulled his feet back, catching France in the chest and heaving him off. He scrambled to his feet, picking up his fallen sword, wheezing, his back and arm aching with pain. "And I am _not_ a child." His tone was more commanding now, nothing to the whine it had been.

While France was still smiling condescendingly, he still pulled out it blade, pulling it at a loose ready. Arthur charged, sword slashing across Francis' chest. The rapier was brought up just in time to block the Englishman, but wasn't fast enough to block the next move. His cheek suddenly burned at Arthur's blade sliced along his face, quickly brought back. "I am not playing France." Blood dripped down the edge of his sword, pooling on the floor, reflecting the chandelier sharp light. The aristocracy had gone silent, no longer laughing. Long fingers traced along the cut, eyeing the blood interestedly. "And you call me a child?" Arthur's laughter rang out in the ballroom, slightly mad as his head tilted back, sword hanging loosely in his hand. Francis watched his carefully, his joyous and dominating mood suddenly gone.

"You violate the terms of your own agreement-" He slashed, Francis barely parrying.

"You kill your own people-" Another vicious strike, Francis stumbled backwards.

"Spread discord into the courts of other nations-" His feet couldn't find the ground, the sword just missing his neck. Their blades met, but France fell, brand clattering away from him. The tip of Arthur's blade touched the underside of his neck.

"And you can still look yourself in the mirror." He said, breathing hard, pushing the sword into Francis' neck. Guards and lords of the court were advancing on the pair, but to their surprise, the French nation began to laugh, drawing blood from his neck as he did so. "Why in God's name are you laughing?"

"Because you love it _Arthur_." He said, as though he had just made the most profound of discoveries, "You have always been my little rebel. Join us. You love chaos, Angleter-" His words were cut off as the point of the sword sunk even deeper into his throat. Francis choked slightly, trying not to move his head even the slightest. The nobility was now advancing on him, but Arthur was not backing down. France's voice was breathless when he next spoke, "Kill me. You will only be joining the chaos. You can either succumb to it, or rule it with me."

Just as suddenly as it had entered, the blade was pulled back. "I don't care for the chaos of a spoiled child." Arthur sheathed his blade, casting one last contemptuous look at the fallen nation. "I take my leave." With the dignity of a wounded hunter, England shuffled out of the chamber, limping slightly and favouring his shoulder.

A shout suddenly rang out amid the quiet. "_Angleterre! Un enfant! Tu es un stupide, petit ENFANT! Et rien de plus!_" He turned just as the long rapier slide from his neck, to his shoulder blade. The pain was white-hot, bursting behind his eyes. He barely heard himself scream as he fell to the ground. One last throb of torture and his mind blacked out.

* * *

**Author's Note**

_Mon bel Angleterre, pourquoi ne peux-tu juste pas l'admettre?__ -_ My lovely England. Why can't you just admit it?

_Angleterre! Un enfant! Tu es un stupide, petit ENFANT! Et rien de plus!__ -_ England! A child! You are a stupid, little CHILD! And nothing more!

I-I... I don't know if this is going to be a series or what... I'll probably add a few more chapters, but the originally was just an excuse to write a fight scene with swords.


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